The answer is probably obvious, but I hate to think that the driver actually kidnapped me. And then… sold me? Wow. What the fuck?
Also, am I really the kind of person that someone wants to sell? I crack my eyes again and look down the row of cages. It’s interesting that they’re almost all men. You hear about traffickers, and it’s usually women and children. Not a single child here, and only one woman.
I don’t know if that’s promising. This isn’t your typical sex trafficking, I suppose. With homophobia running rampant in the world, I would seriously be surprised if that’s what this is.
“Anyone hear anything about where we’re going?” I ask.
“Reserve,” someone answers.
“I’ve also heard game refuge,” someone else says.
“We’re heading northeast.”
Huh. Reserve. Refuge. I don’t know what that means. The only thing I can think of is wildlife reserves. That can also coincide with a game refuge. Are they feeding us to the animals?
“The cages are full,” someone says quietly. “I anticipate we’ll find out where we’re heading at the next stop when we’re let out.”
That’s the last thing said. I try to find a position where all my bruises don’t scream at me with every bump and jostle. There’s no sleeping. Every bounce has my head slamming off the bars. I feel sick. The longer our silence stretches on, the more tense I become. The deeper the claws of fear dig in.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if my parents will view this death as not good enough. I know that I’m going to die when I face whatever lies ahead. People in this position don’t survive long enough to tell the story. My parents will forever condemn my death as not striving for martyrdom.
With nothing else to do in the back of the truck, I notice when we slow down. The grinding of the brakes. The groaning of the engine. I feel the way the truck leans as it drives around an exit ramp.
The next road isn’t as smooth as the highway. I don’t stop being shaken around. My bruises’ bruises have bruises. I almost cry when the truck turns onto what is unmistakably a dirt road. We can hear gravel being kicked up and knocking against the underside of the trailer. The bumps here are horrible. I grip the side of the cage tightly, trying to keep myself still.
When it finally stops, I’m nearly relieved. I don’t even care what comes next if it means I can get out of this stupid cage. It hurts. Everything inside me hurts. I’ve never felt so sore in my life.
We’re left alone for a long time. Still, no one talks. The guy complaining that we were talking about memes in a time like this got his wish. Now we’re all stewing in our fear and anxiety.
I’m dozing when the sound of boots on gravel meets my ears. My eyes snap open, but I don’t move. Playing dead isn’t going to get me anywhere, but I stay just as I am. The scraping of metal makes my heart race. It’s as if I’ve heard these sounds a million times before. I can see what they’re doing.
Unlocking the back. Lifting the handle and turning the lever to unlock the back of the truck. One of the doors pops out of its sealed position. I inhale and stare through the grime on my glasses as best I can.
No one is wearing a mask. There are three men. Two with rifles in their hands. Once again, I’m assured of one thing only—no one is going to live through this. If there were even a chance,they’d be masked. Only people who know their victims won’t live long enough to identify them allow their identities to be seen.
The man without a rifle climbs into the back of the truck. I’m not the only one watching him as he unlocks the first cage and flips up the lid. He leans forward and takes the man by his upper arm, pulling him to his feet.
There’s not a lot of rough jostling. No snide remarks. No bullying. It’s almost… civil. The third man he helps out thanks him, and the guy actually says you’re welcome.
I exchange a look with the guy in the cage across from mine. No doubt he’s as confused as I am.
When it’s my turn, I allow the guy to haul me up. It’s difficult to keep the groan in. My entire body hurts. I don’t speak. He helps me out of the cage and then helps me drop to the ground.
I don’t look at the guys with rifles as I pass them to join the others in the back of a pickup. I’m the last that’ll fit in the back of this one, and one of the guys lifts the tailgate to lock it in place. He drives away from the rest of the people being unloaded from the back of the tractor-trailer truck.
Through the trees. Deeper and deeper we drive. I pull my glasses from my face and use my shirt to clean them as best I can with my tied wrists. I’m thankful that they’re in front of me. As I’m scratching the hell out of my lenses with my shirt, I remember a short video I once saw about how a little girl demonstrates getting herself out of her zip ties. She uses her shoelace and friction.
Maybe next time we’re left alone. And also not staring down rifles. What good are free hands going to do me if I’m shot in the next second?
We drive through the trees long enough that I know there’sno onearound. The further we drive, seeing nothing but trees, the more sour the pit in my stomach grows. I hate everything about this. I hang onto the hate of my situation as much as I can because it won’t take much for my fear to overtake me.
What feels like a day later, the truck pulls up in front of what looks like a barn. The wood planking looks burned. As the tailgate is opened, I can smell the fire. Charcoal fire.
The man who helps me down from the back of the truck doesn’t meet my eyes. He urges me toward the barn where, surprise, there are more armed men. Without someone to follow, I guess at where I should be going, knowing that they’ll tell me if I’m wrong. Even if they do so by the barrel of their guns.
“Hands here,” a man says once I’m inside the barn. He points at the anvil.
Yeah, I feel great about this. He doesn’t have anything in his hands. No rifle. No axe. Taking a breath, I place both my hands on top of the anvil since they’re tied together.
